


YZ1DRFL

by Emeka



Category: Deadly Premonition | Red Seeds Profile
Genre: Codependency, M/M, Self-cest, Underage Masturbation, attraction to women/emily mentioned but not really bi tag material, maybe? depends on what you think york is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-07 10:23:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20974346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emeka/pseuds/Emeka
Summary: Zach has trouble moving on.





	YZ1DRFL

**Author's Note:**

> no i don't like the director's cut framework. am i saying i want zach alone forever if he cant have york??? perhaps

He had hoped his integration back into society would go a little smoother.

Maybe it was too much. You never see or want to think about what lies beyond a movie's 'The End', regular life returning after the day is saved. Greenvale had been his 'The End', even while it had been his beginning, and he believed things could be alright without much thought.

Much smoother, actually.

Special Agent Francis Zach Morgan has no one and nothing but a job to go back to. He has no friends, only colleagues. Life in the city surrounded by unknown faces. Vegetables, York always called them. Maybe it's just facing the busy streets and high-rise buildings alone. Even trapped inside the yolk of his mind, the atmosphere of a small town had been nice. He knew everyone, their names, faces, little foibles. Olivia's letter written from her heart, the three cards he still has in his wallet from the Milk Barn, Emily... the sight of her back and plain bra-strap, nothing at the time.

He misses that yolk, too; not in a small way. Nearly all his life he had been immersed in something he had no name for, something only Greenvale had come close to. Now, in the coldness of his 'The End', he'd call it intimacy. Perhaps it was why such a close-knit tiny town resonated with him to begin with. 

It's so lonely out here.

He lays in bed, still dressed in his suit, staring at his ceiling, trying to remember York's presence. The way his warmth enfolded him. The gentle voice he used to only use with him. Someone always with him, talking to him throughout the day, doing everything together. They were seperate and each other through a background track of B movies and punk music even through adolescence. Even then they were hardly shy. York undressed and bathed often still running his mouth and Zach never minded seeing the strange developments of their body.

"The day we became an adult... do you remember, York?" His whisper is soft as the dry dusty taste in his mouth, and he immediately regrets it. Knowing York won't answer stabs him in the chest with grief. He rolls over to his side. The bedside table is littered with barely-lit cigarette sticks. He can't take the taste but the gesture makes him feel closer to York. He'd had a kind of stylish way about it Zach hasn't mastered. "Fourteen, in the dog days of summer."

The sweltering nights and the rising internal heat. York grabbing and flipping through magazines at gas stations with insatiable curiousity. What do you think, Zach? About this? And this? Men's mags with bare breasts mostly but sometimes they stole through manuals at the bookstore, old copies of kama sutra weird and rambly but still full enough of the unknown to pique the interest. Until they got kicked out for the underage kid muttering to himself.

A skin magazine for women, the pièce de résistance, found soggy next to a sewer drain after a storm. "Do you like this better, Zach?" It was certainly more to see. But he couldn't say at the time how personally-invested his curiousity was.

Their discussion leading up to their self-exploration was customarily frank. Late at night. Buzzcocks left on the background. "It's making the mood, Zach," York said, though personally he thought that just raised questions about York's taste. Kissy-type scenes in movies use slow, romantic music. But he didn't really mind. It was music York liked, and comforted him by proxy, even with his own musical preferences.

"If there's any way you want this done," York said, gentle just for him in those days, soothing and low amidst the punk rock, "then just say so. Okay, Zach?"

Zach gazed through his eyes as he got them comfortable against a mound of pillows. Maybe this is technically masturbation but it is a distinctly outside thrill he feels as York pushed their underwear down, kicking it off the ankles to somewhere on the floor. Or maybe it's a form of sex?

York chuckled between his teeth. "I think it's both. It's both our body, right Zach? So it's masturbation for me, sex with you."

Guess that makes sense but his thoughts stuttered a little at the idea of sex _with_. Sex with York.

(it has the same effect now as it had then, as it has for the last nearly twenty years. this stuttering, warm and connected feeling, now physical as well as emotional. it feels like his belly drops to allow for the sudden excess of sensation between his legs. that york maybe felt these same things only exacerbates it.)

York spread his thighs wide, soles of the feet pressed together to make a diamond shape of his lap. The bedside table lamp didn't provide the clearest lighting but it's kind of moody to go with the music. Of course Zach had seen their cock before but never really _looked_ at it and now he's glad for the half-light. Even where he was, he felt a little embarrassed.

"It's okay, Zach. This is just you and me, the way it's always been." The confidence of his voice swept over him like a heavy blanket. Even at fourteen he always seemed like he knew best, a trait tending to arrogance Zach knew other people disliked. But it was all sweetness to him. In the uncertainty of his position, with the strange unknown anxiety that sometimes made his thoughts race, he needed York's self-assurance. 

Okay. Their penis. Dick. Not much to look at compared to that magazine, skinnier, overall smaller even though it's already half-hard ("we're still kids, zach, of course it'll grow") but it's theirs. Pink and soft and swelling up like a sausage in a casing. York slid his fingers over the skin like he was petting it instead before loosely grasping at the base. His fingernails, not yet yellowed by nicotine, met together. 

All Zach could do where he was is watch. He can't feel it. York's descriptions about the sensation ("like a marshmallow over a hot dog") gave him an idea by texture and appearance. Springy over something firm. The sight gave him a strange feeling. 

(the same as he's experiencing now, at the core. the arousal he'd felt back then hadn't ever been this bittersweet, but bitter or not, his hand still finds its way under the waistband of his slacks. distantly, he thinks, look york, i'm doing things on my own now. you'd be proud of me.)

York's fist moved slowly up, down, forth to the frenulum, before the purplish cap, back to press against the thin fuzz of pubic hair they've only recently started to grow. "Zach, I wish you could feel this too. It's not half-bad. How would I describe it...?" Something unsettled his voice from its usual measure. It sounded like he had to keep catching his breath and there's a different quality to it than as if he was just running too hard. "Warm, and bright. More like spring than summer. ...ah. The way the sun looks in a clear sky."

His narration even in this moment reverberated inside him. The feeling grew but along with it, peace. He could close his eyes (such as they were) and imagine the sun on his skin, and inside his guts. It _would_ feel nice.

(it does. he'd call it more of a summertime heat wave but maybe he's not used yet to his own body warmth. he doesn't look as he touches himself, doesn't want to see his clumsy fingers while thinking of york's surety.)

York cupped their balls into his other palm and rolled them over his fingers. Still jerking off, he then smushed them in close, up to the base of their cock. His low, heavy exhale was all Zach really needed to hear. Even that would feel good... it makes sense the penis would, but he's thought about his testicles all of never that he could recall. He wasn't the one who had to get dressed and walk around with them, after all.

(he pushes his slacks down while arranging himself into a more face-down position. the pillow feels like cottony heaven on his flushed face but what he wants is to not see. not even the option. he almost racks himself grabbing his balls but god, getting them up there sends a rush right through his dick.)

He watched with fascination through a half-dark viewpoint the hard rise and fall of York's chest, and the slight hardening of his nipples into tiny pebbles. He doubted whether York himself had even noticed, or the way his thigh and belly muscles tightened and released with the timing of his breaths. For a moment he wanted more badly than he ever has to be able to sit with York so he could touch him and point all these things out with his fingers, mouth, anything but his thoughts.

It started to sound so wet. York's knuckles shone with it (pre-seminal fluid, he knew vaguely) so of course he went faster with the new lubrication. The first time his fist closed over the head he almost startled Zach with a strange sound, surprised but hot and heavy, like it was a pretty good surprise.

(he rubs his finger into the slit of his glans and--hisses, back arches, everything locks tight, even his jaw, against a raw burst of pleasure. his whole body almost implodes with it. then it melts and spreads all through his limbs and he thinks of york's hands here as they had been before, as they had many times since as he watched. his body knows york's touch even if he himself does not, something that frustrates tears into his eyes, because even if these are technically the same hands he can't put york behind them again.)

"Zach," he panted, "Zach, are you watching? We're having sex, so--mmh!--you have to watch."

Yes, yes, of course, hadn't looked away once. York's vision jerked, like he'd throw his head back if it wouldn't mean depriving Zach of the view, and laughed belly-deep. Oh, York, I wish I could touch you, touch me, let you touch _me_ all over, not this body--

"I love you too, Zach." York's typical aptitude, saying the heart of what he means in so much less.

Yeah. I love you.

York grit his teeth so hard he heard it in his head, like chewin flour, something as minute as that. His vision blurred in and out of focus and then ("ohgodzach!") a jet of semen overflowed into his grip as he came up to the frenulum again. He paused a moment, searing into Zach's mind that formative sight, before stroking again, more rapid than before and tighter, almost squeezing come out until it ran out all over his fist.

(he groans full-force into the back of his teeth, head butting just as hard into the pillow. york's name a refrain in his head, his hands, his voice, seeing his face in the mirror, york who said--i'm here--god what do you do for semen on good pants?)

One deep breath, two, then very somberly, "Zach, that felt like getting kicked by a horse."

Oh. No good? he wondered. It looked good. And his 'yolk' inside York's head felt different than usual. Charged, languid. The two shouldn't go together but they managed.

"It was. Like an explosion. But I really wish you could have felt it. Now I see how it could be a habit that sticks, Zach! You know, when Buzzcocks' debut released in 1977..."

Zach listened half-heartedly though he usually enjoys him rambling. York's gesturing was sending strings of white snotty-looking liquid all over his torso and bedspread. The latter was York's problem, but the former brought out more restlessness inside him. They were pretty scrawny kids in those days; still, his belly looked perfect spattered like that, like a toaster strudel frosted by a toddler. It was enough to make someone without a throat feel thirsty.

Of course York took notice of the direction of his thoughts. He always did. "Zach, I don't think it'll taste any good, but if you want me to try..."

Next best thing, he supposed. He watched with increasing tension as York swiped some slime off his rib cage then dawdled, hand floating back and forth like he was getting a baby's attention then zoom, goes the airplane.

"Ugh, Zach. If it was only bitter, that'd be one thing. But it's salty too, and this texture... but," he continued brightly, "I'm happy we could share all this together. And you'd still eat it all yourself, right Zach? I'd do it too. Because it's you."

(yes he does. because it's york. it's as unpleasant as he thought and he gags momentarily at the bewildering new sensation on his tongue. but york had done this once for him to see, sucked down his own come, and he has to know it for himself. and that is the crux of things, that he looks at this body that has in truth belonged to him all this time and still thinks 'york', still sees green eyes when he looks in the mirror. he doesn't feel at home at the forefront of this skin. it still isn't his.)

They stayed present with each other that night, letting the rest of the tape run through and making lazy small talk. York cleaned off his fingers again even though it looked congealed and probably tasted even worse before turning on the tub. In front of the mirror, "so you can see, Zach."

With adolescence well and truly underway the dynamic of their relationship, others evolved into a standstill. He and York had what they had together... whatever it was. They said their I-love-yous but the idea of romance as he knew it didn't fit. Other people became _attractive_ other people, though they never lasted. Just highschool dates, carpools, concerts, York learning to paint his nails from a like-minded girlfriend during their punk phase; all only lasting a little while.

"I don't really get other people, Zach," York confided one night, following another breakup. "Especially women."

Zach closed his eyes and slept for most of York's dates. It felt too much like being a third-wheel, even if the date couldn't possibly know he existed, and even though York assured him with the bluntness that often hurt others that everyone else was a third-wheel to them. But very, very privately, he wondered if York was too used to socializing with him via their connection. Normal people don't broadcast their thoughts and feelings, after all. It didn't help that York never stopped his muttering habit, whenever Zach _was_ awake.

He'd thought things would always be like that. For a long time, they were.

Who'd have thought such a little place could change that? Or a born city girl, by rights no different from any other city girl he'd known. Was it because she was the first of anyone not York to acknowledge his existence? Her sincerity? The evening dress she showed up at the door to his hotel room in, already looking like a goddess? He had spent the night after York fell asleep trying not to think about her neckline, the soft swelling of her breasts over the fabric.

"Of course you'd like her too, York," he says, staring at his spit-clean hand. "She really was special. Right up to the end. And for me... this is just how things go, isn't it."

It's dark, no music, no sound at all except from the outside. The old cassettes and VHS tapes are around but he can't bear to go through them, even for what was more 'his'. Playing anything right now would feel too much like putting on a soundtrack for his misery, besides. And right now he wants to be miserable, drown in thoughts of York... and even Emily, who he had grown to love.

He hopes they're happy together. He does. But at the end of all this, what does he get?

(a shell, york)

**Author's Note:**

> cursed headcanon: york talking about his favorite movies and bands is like asmr for zach


End file.
